When Machado Writes

You take a liking to them immediately. It’s what they say. Not much how they say it but what they say. It’s how you think they would laugh into their bosom at a private joke you wish you knew. It’s how you imagine them at their table, their laptop fully charged and unplugged, the mug of black coffee on a wooden coaster, one you know they would have spent an entire evening looking for. It’s not so simple, you know. It’s what they are going to be looking and blinking at furiously, while their brows are inked with words that haven’t appeared on the word document yet. The window is open, the blinds are moved to their rightful corners. One doesn’t really use the blinds for their actual purpose in this house. Windows simply look so much more emptier without blinds. They are a dull orange in Machado’s home. But she has bright colored carpets lined with cat hair all over it. Mascot, his name is.

Now she is trimming her toe nail as her foot inches towards the space button on her keyboard. She has logged in and out of Twitter 5 times already. A room in a story is what’s bothering her today. She thought it would be square but this morning she woke up and didn’t care about the room anymore. She is scared now because slowly the room is fading from her story. What if she cares lesser about the story tomorrow?

The coffee is cold now. She drinks some, picks up Zadie Smith and rolls the book like a dice, hoping it will reveal secrets to Zadie Smith- like metaphors. Nothing happens. In 20 minutes, she will start writing. The room is still there, but the painting on one of its walls is more interesting now.